


till the juice runs

by deathbanjo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Dean Has a Bad Day, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, One Night Stands, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Humor, canonverse, hook-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbanjo/pseuds/deathbanjo
Summary: Apparently whoever drew up the venn diagram of Dean’s sex life decided the circle labelled ‘good sex’ and the one labelled ‘sex with men’ should be kept far apart.





	till the juice runs

**Author's Note:**

> this is my attempt at writing another fic along the same lines as "[the best bang for your buck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999681)." except dirtier and possibly way more embarrassing (even i was cringing). title is from "[the lemon song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zyhu2ysqKGk)" by led zeppelin. 
> 
> **please see end notes for detailed warnings**

i

Andy Morgan—thirty-eight years old, real proud of his useless English degree, black-bearded, blue-eyed, and slightly gap-toothed—is absolutely not worth the three hour drive. 

He makes whiny, high-pitched noises and fucks like a jackhammer, making the headboard rattle, and Dean watches the secondhand _tick tick tick_ around the clock on Andy’s wall until it reaches the nine and Andy comes with a drawn-out groan.

“God—oh god,” he pants. 

He presses sloppy kisses against Dean’s neck and paws at his dick like he’s trying to pull it off, and Dean comes only because it’s 2am and he wants to go home where Johnny Depp’s distorted head isn’t snarling down at him from an old _Fear and Loathing_ poster.

“You sure you can’t stay?” Andy asks after Dean’s pulled his jeans back on. 

“Sorry. My, uh—” Dean fishes for something—anything. “My mom thinks I’m at fantasy football, so.” 

Nailed it. 

“Your… your mom?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He clears his throat. “Anyway, uh. Thanks.” 

Andy gapes at him and Dean hightails it out of there.

///

Dean’s liked dudes for a long time.

When he was younger, he thought the reason he was obsessed with the Clint Eastwood westerns and Star Wars was because Blondie and Han Solo were the kind of men he wanted to be, heroes he could look up to. And he told himself that's all it was, even as he was jacking off to a shirtless photo of Harrison Ford. 

Sometime around Apocalypse #3405, he stopped pretending his attraction to men was strictly admiration and downloaded one of those “Meet Horny Studs Near You!” apps with the unfortunate—if apt—name “Beat Discrete”, which has a panic button that brings up Tetris when pressed.

It turns out to be a mistake.

///

It’s almost 10:30 when he finally drags his (very sore, thanks) ass out of bed. He grabs his robe off the back of his door and shuffles towards the kitchen, praying that everyone’s scattered off already.

But God never listened during apocalypse one through fifty so why would he give a shit now.

“Huh. Looks like you’re not a rotten egg after all, Cas,” Sam says. He leans back in chair and grins up at Dean. “Someone got in late.”

“Apparently,” Cas says from where he’s seated across from him. He eyes Dean over the top of his tablet, half-asleep and well past needing a shave, scruffy chin resting in his palm.

Dean grunts and limps towards the coffeemaker. Cas finally lifts his head, frowns at him. 

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You seem kinda stiff.”

Sam snorts. 

“Was it that Tai Chi instructor?” he asks. “Did she find your center?”

No, it wasn’t, and no, he absolutely did not. Dean pours himself a full mug of coffee and turns to look at them, plastering on his most lewd, I-Just-Had-Sex grin.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “She centered me all night.” 

Sam makes a face. “Gross, Dean.” 

Dean drinks from his mug. Cas keeps staring at him—more specifically, at his neck, his brow furrowed. The tips of Dean’s ears burn.

Finally, Cas asks, “Did she have a beard?” 

Sam honks and Dean nearly chokes, gets coffee down the front of his t-shirt. 

“ _What?_ ” he asks.

Cas points to his neck. Dean reaches up to touch it, feels a slight burn there—god damn Jackhammer Andy and his stupid fucking hipster beard. Dean huffs and drops his hand.

“Rugburn,” he says. 

Cas’s mouth thins but he doesn’t say anything else. Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to his phone, bored of the conversation already.

“So, get this. Mom and Jack found a small network of vamp nests in a farm town outside Cedar Rapids,” he says. Dean lets out a silent sigh of relief, glad for the subject change, and grabs the loaf of bread from the cupboard. Sam glances at him. “Interested?” 

“Sign me up,” Dean says, digging strawberry jam out of the fridge. He chances a look at Cas. “How’s the chicken wing?”

Cas doesn’t grimace when he shrugs, which is a good sign.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“All right,” Dean says. “Gimme an hour and we can head out.”

ii

It takes nearly a full week to clean the vamps out, even once a few of the Apocalypse-World hunters show up to help. Once the vamps realize what’s going on, a group of them try to skip town while a few of the more aggro ones stay behind. 

In the end, Mary puts out an APB for the few stragglers that got away and no one gets seriously injured, so Dean counts that as a win.

He’s got a match on Beat, which he counts as another. 

According to his profile, Matt Keller is forty-two, covered in tattoos, and he likes craft beer, motorcycles, sailing, and—Christ. Twinks, apparently. Which Dean isn’t, despite what the app might think. But the guy’s got a nice smile, and Dean wouldn’t mind getting held down by those big, beefy-looking arms while he’s getting—

“Dean.” 

He jumps, his knee hitting Cas’s under the table. Tetris flashes into life on his screen, his phone vibrating with music, and Dean accidentally slams the a t-shaped piece to the bottom of the board in panic. It gets stuck in the corner. 

“What?” he snaps.

“Mom asked you a question and—” Sam frowns. “Are you playing Tetris?” 

Jack leans into him to look at his phone screen. 

“Yes,” he says.

“Dude, seriously. Again?” Sam asks. Dean glares at him.

“Boys,” Mary warns. 

“Sorry, mom.” Dean shoots Matt a quick message and pockets his phone. “What’s up?”

“We’re getting a platter,” she says. “Do you want in?”

“Hell yeah, I want in,” Dean says.

Mary slides out of the booth and heads towards the bar to order. Jack leans against the table towards Sam, starts talking a mile a minute about how Mary’s teaching him to throw an angel blade, how he’s getting real good at hitting the targets. 

Across the table, Cas plays with his straw, his finger and thumb sliding along its side absentmindedly. He glances at Dean when his phone buzzes on the table.

Dean grabs it before it can make any more noise.

  
Impala67

Hey there, handsome. I’m in town for the night, looking to have some fun. Interested?

Sent to CaptainM8 | 65% Match

  
CaptainM8

You bet, Gorgeous. ;-)

Sent from CaptainM8 | 65% Match

///

Matt “Captain” Dwyer’s got a nice, big house, a pool, three bikes, and a deep gravelly voice that gets Dean’s insides hot.

He also has two cats, which should’ve been a red flag. 

Look, Dean doesn’t have anything against cats—or cat people—but he’s got allergies, and they always rear their ugly head at the most inopportune times.

Like when he’s trying to convince this deep-voiced, strong-armed biker that yes, it’s totally okay if he holds Dean face-down against the mattress and fucks him into next week, because right now Matt’s hands are so light on his sides that he can barely feel them, and he’s not fucking Dean so much as he’s daintily dipping his dick in like he’s testing the temperature of a pool. 

Dean’s about to tell him to get on with it when Princess or Fluffy or whoever the fuck waddles into the room, the little bell on her collar jingling and white fur completely covered in feathers. 

Matt stops, makes a loud gasping noise and, in a squeaky baby voice Dean never, ever wants to fucking hear again, says, “Oh no, Mononoke! Did you ruin daddy’s nice new pillows?”

“Dude.” Dean glances over his shoulder to look at him. “What the fuck?”

Matt sighs. 

“Sorry, she has this habit—” he starts rocking gently again as he goes into a spiel about his stupid fucking cat and her fetish for goose-down pillows, and that’s when Dean feels it: the tingle in his nose, the twitch in his eye.

“Ah, shit,” he says, but it’s too late. 

“Wha—”

Dean sneezes and Captain Matt shoots his load without warning.

Dean freezes. 

Behind him, Matt says, “Um. Bless you?”

“Did you just—” 

“Well…I mean—” Matt hesitates. “Yeah. Sorry. That’s, um. Never happened before.”

Dean drags himself out from under him.

“Hey, look—I’m sorry,” Matt tries, reaching for him. Dean grabs his clothes off the floor. Matt says, “If you give me a few minutes—”

Dean looks at him. 

Matt shuts up. 

Dean only just manages to not drop-kick Fluffy on his way out the door.

///

Sam and Cas are still awake when he gets in, so he doesn’t feel guilty about slamming the mini fridge door so hard it threatens to burst through the wall and into the hallway.

“Dude,” Sam says, not looking up from his laptop. “Chill.”

“I am chill,” Dean grits out. He downs nearly half a beer in one go and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, aggressively flicks through the take out flyers on the counter for something to do.

Cas watches him. “Are you—” 

He stops and hones in on Dean’s mouth, slightly swollen where Matt accidentally bumped him with his teeth (“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”), feels the tell-tale stubble burn on his jaw. Fuck’s sake, he’s really gotta start cruising clean-shaven guys. 

Cas’s brow furrows and Dean turns away, drinks more beer. 

“All right, I’ll bite.” Sam closes his laptop lid and looks at him. “So, what happened with the hot nurse?” 

“Nothing,” Dean snaps. Then sneezes. 

“Obviously.” Sam frowns. “Dean, man, I know dating apps are popular, but maybe you should, I dunno. Stick to what you know? You don’t seem to be having any luck.”

Dean scoffs. “Tell me about it.”

“Besides,” Sam says. “The one you’re using—” 

Dean’s insides freeze. “What—what about it?”

Sam fidgets uncomfortably. “It’s geared more towards, uh… younger people?” 

Dean lets out a breath. Right. He used another one before, one he gave up on a while ago after some chick said he had a dad bod—which he still doesn’t understand. But obviously he never told Sam that.

“Right,” he says. “Okay.” 

He sneezes again. 

“Are you feeling all right?” Cas asks.

“Yeah, just—” He sneezes again. And again. Christ, cats suck. “I’m gonna shower.”

He takes his beer into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

iii

Johnny Bowell—username: J.BigRooster74—works as an engine mechanic in a small family-owned shop in Mississippi. Kansas is a pitstop on his way to Bozeman for his brother’s wedding, and he’s forty-four, has unruly dark hair, nice big hands, a hot body and a smoking habit, and watches far too much porn. 

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes into Dean’s shoulder. “You like my big cock fucking your tight ass?”

The dude definitely lied on his dating page—if he’s got a ‘big cock’ then Dean would hate to see a small one. He ducks his head into the pillow and tries not to laugh, and unfortunately for him, Johnny totally misreads why his shoulders are shaking.

“Yeah— _yeah_ , come on that big fat cock,” he says, and fucks Dean harder, pinning him awkwardly to the mattress. The bed squeaks under them, springs on their last legs, and Johnny starts to moan as he tenses, loses his rhythm. He comes with a few erratic jerks, a shudder, then collapses against Dean’s back. 

Then, because Johnny’s a classy gentlemen, he belches and rolls out of bed to take a piss with the bathroom door open. 

Dean turns onto his back with a grunt. He stares down at his dick and wonders what the etiquette is here. Does he finish himself off, or— 

“You want another beer?” Johnny shouts from inside the bathroom.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters.

///

He gets in just after three in the morning.

His ass is sore—more from the drive than the no-tell hook-up—and he’s pent-up and frustrated and smells like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and Johnny “Big Cock” Bowell’s sweat, but more than anything he’s just bone-tired. 

Not bothering to turn on any lights, he wanders into the kitchen to grab a drink of water on his way to the shower and nearly barrels into Cas. 

“Fuck!” Dean shouts. Cas jumps and steps back, startled, nearly spilling his tea. Dean huffs out a laugh, grabs Cas’s arm. “Fuck—Cas, you scared the shit out of me.” 

“Sorry,” Cas says. “Though, I could say the same thing.” 

“Fair point,” Dean says.

“I thought you were—um.” Cas’s eyes land on the bite mark on Dean’s throat. “Out.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, tries to hide the mark from view. Cas’s mouth turns down at the corners, eyes still on Dean’s neck as he drinks from his mug.

“Yeah, well.” Dean drops his hand. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“I can’t seem to fall asleep, so I made chamomile.” Cas shrugs, winces.

Dean frowns. “I thought your shoulder was better.”

“I thought so, too,” Cas sighs. “It feels bad, then better. Then bad again.”

Dean nods. “Human bodies’ll do that.”

Cas smiles at him. Something in Dean’s chest flutters. He clears his throat. 

“Here.” He moves out of the doorway, out of Cas’s space, and gestures to one of the stools. Cas frowns but sits down and looks up at him. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Just—sit there,” Dean says. 

He peels off his jacket and tosses it on the table, gets another whiff of beer and smoke and sweat and hopes Cas doesn’t smell it. Cas watches him move, tries to glance over his sore shoulder when Dean steps behind him.

“Cas,” Dean warns. 

“What are you doing?” Cas asks. 

Dean tries to ignore the way his heart starts to beat faster in his chest, tries to keep his breathing calm, steady. This is probably a bad idea, but fuck it. He’s had a rough night. 

He places his hands on Cas’s shoulders, careful, and starts to rub them. 

“Oh,” Cas says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He lets out a shaky laugh. “Dude, you’re tense as hell.” 

“Well, I didn’t know what you were doing,” Cas says.

“Just giving you a massage, Cas.” Dean works his thumbs along Cas’s neck, keeps the pressure light. “Might help you sleep.”

Cas sighs, long and drawn-out, and drinks from his mug. He’s got a strong back that carries far too much weight, and it finally starts to relax under Dean’s fingers. He draws smooth, gentle circles with his thumbs that make Cas’s t-shirt catch under them.

“You can go harder,” Cas murmurs. 

Dean swallows. 

“Okay,” he says. “Just, uh. Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“You won’t,” Cas says, soft, and tilts his head down so Dean has better access. 

Dean presses deeper, focuses on the knot in Cas’s right shoulder. Cas lets out a quiet moan.

“Mm, that feels good,” he says. Dean’s hands trip, clumsy, and the arousal that sputtered out earlier starts to creep its way back into his gut, makes him want to die a little. He takes a breath before starting again, tries to keep his knees from buckling.

“Dean?” 

Dean mentally shakes himself. “Huh?”

Cas frowns up at him, concerned. He touches Dean’s hand to stop his massaging and turns around to face him. 

“I said you seem tired,” he says. 

“Oh,” Dean says. He drops his free hand off Cas’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess.”

Cas brushes his thumb against Dean’s knuckles, so light it could be an accident. Dean feels goosebumps trail up his arm.

“You should sleep,” Cas says. 

“I will,” Dean says. “I just, uh—need to shower first.”

Cas nods. His eyes flick to a spot on Dean’s neck before he meets his eye again. 

“That’s probably a good idea,” he says, quiet. 

Dean clears his throat. Cas lets go of his hand and grabs his tea, the stool squeaking when he stands up. For a moment, he hovers in Dean’s space, close enough that Dean can feel his breath on his face.

“Thank you for the massage,” he says. “If you ever need one in return, or… anything, just let me know.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas gives him a small smile and touches his arm on his way out of the kitchen.

iv

He gets a message from Tom Marlowe as they’re washing werewolf blood off their hands in an old trough. They’re at an abandoned farm just outside Waco, Texas, where the wolf had been squatting for months, and it’s not even nine yet, so Dean checks his phone on the way back to the car.

  
BuckinBronc30

sorry i can’t do pick up lines but ur really hot. wanna fuck? lol

Sent by BuckinBronc30 | 78% Match

Straight to the point. Dean can appreciate that. 

“You guys hungry?” Sam asks, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. “I saw a diner on the way to the motel. Looked decent.”

“I could eat,” Cas says. 

In his profile picture, Tom’s wearing leather chaps on his long legs and a black cowboy hat, rope hanging off his hip, and suddenly Dean’s itching to save a horse.

  
Impala67

Just give me a time and place, cowboy. 

Sent to BuckinBronc30 | 78% Match

“Dean?” Sam asks. 

Tom sends him an address and Dean pockets his phone. 

“Nah,” he says. He gives Sam a lewd grin. “I’m eating out tonight.”

Sam grimaces.

“Dude, seriously. We’ve been off the clock ten minutes,” he says. “You got girls lined up in every state now?” 

“I can’t help it that I got all the good genes,” Dean says. He winks at Cas, who just looks at him blankly.

Sam huffs. “Fine. At least drop us off at the diner before you go.”

///

Tom’s trailer sits in the back corner of a huge horse farm on the other side of town. Inside smells like old leather, like hay and horse sweat. Dean’s getting the authentic cowboy experience, apparently, because Tom’s got dark hair and suntanned skin, and he opens the door with a deeply-drawled “Howdy, darlin’.”

He’s a retired bronco, but Dean figures he can show him a thing or two about riding. 

Only, he barely gets the show going, pumping his dick slow while he rocks lazily in Tom’s lap, when Tom grabs his hips and holds him down. He grunts as he fucks up into him hard a handful of times, lets out a strained groan, then shudders under him.

“Been awhile,” Tom says. Dean huffs and rolls off his lap. 

He stares up at the trailer’s wood panel ceiling as Tom gives him an awkward blowjob that’s more teeth than tongue, comes into Tom’s rough hand with a bored sigh, then washes up in the closet-sized bathroom at the front of the trailer.

“Were you in the bronc business long?” Dean asks, doing up his belt.

“Twenty-five years,” Tom says from where he’s still stretched out naked on the bed. He taps his cigarette into the ashtray resting on his stomach and drawls, “Give or take some.”

“Huh.” 

Dean steps into his boots and ties the laces, grabs his jacket off the back of the only kitchen chair. He heads towards the door when Tom calls out to him. 

“Hey, cowboy.” 

Dean stops to look at him and Tom smirks. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, like he’s so fucking clever, like he thinks he was actually a decent lay, and Dean feels frustration bubble in his stomach. 

He flashes Tom a tightly-closed smile, clenching his jaw, and grabs the door handle. 

He pauses, turns back to him.

“Y’know—and correct me if I’m wrong,” Dean says. “But I could’ve sworn you boys were supposed to last eight seconds.”

///

He should’ve known the guy was a rube when he made Dean walk the two miles—both ways—across the back path to get to his trailer.

At this point, Dean would gladly walk the entire six-hundred miles across Texas if it guaranteed him a decent fuck, but apparently whoever drew up the venn diagram of his sex life decided the circle labelled ‘good sex’ and the one labelled ‘sex with men’ should be kept far apart.

He grabs two cheeseburgers from McDonald’s and heads back to the motel with the smell of horse shit clinging to his clothes, dreading Sam’s smart-ass comment. But when he gets in, Sam just gives him a sad, pitying look that’s ten times worse. 

But at least Cas doesn’t point out the stubble burn on his face.

v

Dean starts checking for hexbags after Kurt. 

Kurt had blue eyes and a shy, crooked smile, a desert-dry sense of humor that made Dean laugh, and he taught Dean all about facials. 

Not because Dean had asked about them, but because when Kurt was about to come, he sounded like somebody was fucking a dying whale, and when Dean pulled his mouth off to ask him if he was okay—bam, moneyshot. 

Right in the goddamn eye.

So now he’s throwing around couch cushions in a motel room just outside Phoenix while Sam and Cas are at the library. Because, seriously, this is getting fucking ridiculous. This has to be a curse. There’s no way guys are this bad at sex. 

“What are you doing?”

Dean wheels around. Cas stands in the open doorway with his keycard out and a tray of Gas-N-Sip coffee in hand.

“Nothing,” Dean says. 

Cas glances at the couch cushions scattered around the floor. And the pillows. And the blankets. And Dean’s clothes, and Sam’s clothes, and—okay, so the room’s a bit of a mess.

Cas sets the tray of coffee on the counter. He’s got a shaving nick on his neck and his white v-neck hangs loose around his collarbones. Dean swallows.

“Did you lose something?” Cas asks. 

“No, I didn’t lose something. I’ve been—” 

Dean slams on the breaks, because he’s absolutely not going to tell Cas, of all people, that he’s had such a bad run of luck getting laid lately that he’s seriously starting to think he’s been cursed by a fucking— 

Dean stops. “I need to make a phone call.”

Cas frowns, opens his mouth to say something, and Dean darts out of the room.

///

Rowena picks up on the fourth ring.

“Dean,” she says, cheery enough to make him grit his teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I think I’m cursed,” he says. 

“Aye,” Rowena says. 

Dean blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh, I thought you just meant in general,” Rowena says. “Anytime you boys call it’s always some earth-shattering apocalypse-or-other, so I just assumed…” 

Dean rubs at his face and sighs down the line, tired.

“Dean,” Rowena says. “What’s wrong, dear?”

When he laughs, it comes out like a short, pained bark. 

“This is so stupid,” he says. 

“Is someone hurt?” 

“No,” Dean says. He closes his eyes, steels himself. “All right, just—keep this between you and me, okay?” 

He tells her. He keeps it to the basics—the app, the guys’ names and what they look like, just in case any of them sound familiar—and leaves out all the gritty details of it. Rowena is quiet as she listens and thankfully doesn’t laugh when he’s done.

“I’ve never heard of anything quite like that,” she admits. “There’s love spells, of course, and—well, I suppose it’s possible, but… you say it hasn’t happened with women at all lately?” 

“Nope,” Dean says. 

He hears the quiet clink of a spoon in a teacup in the background. When Rowena speaks next, she’s hesitant.

“These men, they all seem quite… similar, don’t they?” she says. 

“So, I have a type,” Dean says. “Sue me.” 

“Oh, of course, darling. But if you’re going after these men because they mark some box on your list and nothing else…” Rowena pauses. “Well, then—and I do hate to say this—it sounds like you just have an awful taste in men.”

vi

He should’ve known this whole thing would bite him in the ass eventually. 

He gets matched with a man named Paul, who he meets at a seedy bar near Derby, one where the barstools have been nailed back together so many times the legs look like something out of a slasher flick. 

Paul is pushing forty, has long fingers and piercing blue eyes, and he’s on tour with the no-name bluegrass band he plays bass for. He seems like a pretty nice guy at first.

Look, Dean’s not against a little biting, a little manhandling. Hell, he’s not even against getting fucked in the men’s room at a seedy bar. But Paul tastes like too much scotch, is rough when he pushes Dean against the wall, and his dirty talk has a dangerous edge to it.

Paul fingers him open, quick and a little hard, and breathes, “Can’t wait to come in this hot ass of yours.”

“Yeah,” Dean pants, but his stomach clenches uneasily. 

He tries to ignore it, wave it off as nothing—his head’s a little foggy from the whiskey, from the smoke in the bar—and pushes back against Paul’s hand with a moan.

Paul’s belt jingles when he gets his jeans undone, his open fly rough against Dean’s bare ass. He grips Dean’s hip hard, pulls him tight against him and nudges between his cheeks, hard and slick and definitely not wearing a condom. 

Dean jolts. “Dude, no—what the fuck?” 

He gets his hands under him, pushes back from the wall, hard. Paul stumbles backwards and Dean grabs his jeans, yanks them back up.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he snaps.

And Paul’s either a) drunk enough, b) stupid enough, or c) actually that big of an asshole (possibly all three) that he thinks punching Dean in the jaw is a good idea.

He manages to get another punch in before Dean reacts, and a minute later, Paul’s curled up in a heap on the wet tile floor, bleeding from a broken nose and sobbing as he cradles his balls. 

Dean wipes his hand across his sore mouth, tastes blood, and glares down at him. 

“By the way,” he says. “Your band sucks.”

///

When he gets home there’s muffled chatter coming from the TV room.

There was a message on his phone from Sam when he stopped at a Denny’s to wash his face in the bathroom sink. There’s a potential shifter Jody needs a hand with, and Sam’s already hit the road. 

Dean told him he’d catch up later. He needs to shower the disgust off his skin and sleep in his own bed, and he figured he’d be going home to an empty bunker.

He pokes his head into the TV room and Cas glances up from the hokey sitcom he’s watching. 

“Dean?” he asks.

“Hey,” Dean says. He leans against the door. “You didn’t go with Sam?”

“He left while I was having a nap,” Cas says. “I thought you had a—a date.” 

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, bitter. It pulls on his sore lip. “Well, it didn’t work out.”

Cas frowns at him for a moment, then notices the cut, the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw. Dean looks away, shifts uncomfortably, but Cas is off the couch in an instant, stepping into his space. 

“Dean, what—” he reaches up, hesitant. When Dean doesn’t move away, Cas touches the underside of his jaw, careful, tilts his head so he can see better. He drops his hand and asks, “What happened?” 

He’s tired. It’s been another shitty night in a long-ass line of shitty nights, and he’s just. Really fucking tired.

“The guy punched me.” 

“Guy—a guy at the bar?” Cas asks. “Was it someone she knew?” 

“The guy I was hooking up with.”

Cas’s expression darkens. “He—your date did this to you?” 

“Asshole didn’t wanna play nice, so.” Dean shrugs. “I dealt with it. It’s no big deal.”

Cas shakes his head. “Dean, no, that’s not—” 

“Look, I just—” he sighs and rubs his face, winces when his jaw smarts. “I’m tired as hell and I just wanna sleep for a few hours before hitting the road.”

Cas looks at him for a moment, his mouth tight. There’s anger brewing just under the surface, and under that, something deeper. Something that looks like it hurts.

Quietly, Cas says, “You deserve respect from the people you sleep with, Dean.”

Dean gapes at him and Cas leaves without another word.

vii

It’s a six hour drive to Sioux Falls, and they spend the first two hours in awkward silence. 

He’s had a headache brewing since he woke up, so blasting music is out of the question. They drive with the windows down and the radio playing quietly in the background instead, Cas watching the scenery go by in the passenger seat, the morning sunlight bright against his face and wind teasing his hair.

They stop for gas, Baby nearing empty since Dean never bothered to fill up on the way back from Derby, and Cas buys him a chocolate bar and a bottle of ibuprofen. That’s enough to break the silence. 

“Did you know?” Dean asks. Cas looks at him and Dean says, “About—about me, and—and guys.” 

“I suspected,” Cas says. “But I didn’t know for sure.”

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

Well. He can’t argue that. 

The radio station fizzles out and he fiddles with the knob, gives up when he can’t find anything. At least the ibuprofen’s starting to kick in. Cas turns back to watch the fields roll by out the window. Dean taps his fingers on the wheel. Rubs his jaw, careful of the bruise. 

Finally, he says, “I just wish it was easier, y’know?” 

Cas looks at him again. “What do you mean?” 

“I dunno—just. It’s like every guy I’ve matched up with in the last few months has been bad at sex,” Dean says. “I mean, it’s a pretty basic concept, you’d think it wouldn’t be that hard to find someone good at it.”

“You’d think,” Cas says, and before Dean can stop it, the floodgates open.

“But no, that’s asking too much, cuz apparently men just suck at sex. They can’t keep a rhythm to save their goddamn life or they come too quick or they don’t bother with a reach-around, and even if they do it’s like I’m not worth the damn effort. I mean, what the hell does a guy have to do to get a half-decent fuck around here, huh? By a guy who actually has some idea of what he’s doing with his dick? Just find the prostate, dude, it ain’t fucking rocket science!” 

Cas stares at him. 

Dean’s cheeks heat. 

“Sorry, I—shit. I’m sorry.” He wipes at his face. “Just—pretend I didn’t say any of that.”

“No, it’s… fine,” Cas says. “It can be, um. Difficult to navigate.” 

Dean glances at him. “What, hooking up, or…?” 

“Hooking up.” Cas nods. “Personally, I’ve never had difficulties finding the prostate.” 

Dean stares at the road. Feels like his face is going to melt off. 

“Oh,” he says. “I—uh. I didn’t know you… did that kinda thing.”

“On occasion.”

“No, yeah. I just thought you wouldn’t, after—y’know.” Dean gestures vaguely. “Getting stabbed after your first time.” 

“Well, no,” Cas agrees. “I’m not particularly fond of getting stabbed.” 

“Right. Yeah,” Dean says. “But you actually, uh. Enjoy it?” 

“Yes, Dean. I enjoy sex.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Awesome. That’s—yeah. Good for you.”

He reaches forward to try the radio again. Static hisses out of the speakers. He turns it off and shifts in his seat. Feels Cas watching him.

Dean clears his throat. “So.”

“Dean…”

Dean chances a look at him. “Yeah?”

Cas studies him for a moment. Then opens his mouth. Closes it again. 

His phone rings.

“Oh, that’s probably Sam,” Cas says, digging it out. 

Dean lets out his breath and tries to concentrate on the road.

///

“All right. Coffee one: black. Coffee two: also black because this isn’t Starbucks,” Jody says, handing Dean and Cas two steaming mugs.

Sam’s mouth twitches and Dean snorts. With a sigh, Cas gets out of his seat and wanders off to grab cream and sugar. Jody plunks down at her desk and tosses a folder on top, opens it up to pull out a map. Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

“So we’ve circled the general area we think she’s holed up in,” Sam says.

“She?” Dean asks. 

Jody hands him the mugshot of a cute young blonde in her mid-twenties named Jennifer Marshall.

“She’s the assistant manager. The only tape that hasn’t been tampered with was from the first robbery where she used a code to get in and turn off the alarm,” Jody says. “Only—”

“Her eyes were glowing,” Dean says. “Got it.”

Cas wanders back in, stirring his coffee, and Sam gives them the run-down of the case: Two officers—Michael Schmidt and Ted Kinney—got called to the store when someone reported a suspicious person hanging around. Schmidt swears up and down it was Jennifer Marshall who knocked him out and killed Ted, but the real Jennifer was on vacation in Hawaii with her fiance.

Dean’s phone buzzes again. Then again. He grits his teeth and ignores it. 

“What I don’t get is the product,” Jody says. “I mean, if you’re going to steal something, why steal cheap baby clothes?” 

Dean’s phone buzzes again. He sighs and pulls it out of his pocket.

  
NottyDawg89

hey sexy i’ve got a leak in my ass that needs 2 b plugged ;P

Sent by NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

  
NottyDawg89

oh sorry wrong guy my b lol

Sent by NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

  
NottyDawg89

ur pretty hot tho u wanna hook up? lol

Sent by NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

  
NottyDawg89

nvm i thought u’d be more of a top

Sent by NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

  
Impala67

What kind of pick-up line is “I’ve got a leak in my ass”?

Sent to NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

Jody looks at him. “Are we interrupting?”

  
NottyDawg89

this other guy i’m msging is a plumber lol

Sent by NottyDawg89 | 11% Match

“Sorry, it’s just—Jesus—” Dean blocks NottyDawg89. “It’s a stupid dating app thing.”

Jody raises her eyebrows. Cas clears his throat. 

“Anyway,” Sam says. “I think we should stake out the store tonight.”

///

The store is an ugly brick box with large windows covering nearly the entire front of the building. Jody parks her truck out of view so she and Sam can watch the back while Dean and Cas park the Impala in an alley that offers a view of both the front and side doors.

It’s shaping up to be a slow, chilly night, the air nippy even with the windows rolled up. Dean gets three different messages from three separate men, which might be a new record. Who knew Sioux Falls was such a hotspot for Horny Studs Near Him?

  
CheezItNipplez8

you free tonight? i got a new toy i’d like to show you ;-)

Sent by CheezItNipplez8 | 61% Match

  
StrayCatW47

cool car. would totally fuck u in it.

Sent by StrayCatW47 | 54% Match

  
MumfordSux20

Greetings, fellow connoisseur of the male form! Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Great, another gay hipster, just what this app needs!” But I’d like to take a moment to assure you that I’m not like the other gay hipsters that plague Beat, for you see… (Read More)

Sent by MumfordSux20 | 29% Match

“You’re certainly popular,” Cas says.

“Yeah, everyone wants some of this ass,” Dean says, tone flat, because no one knows what to do with it once they get it. He sighs. “We probably got a long night ahead of us.”

Cas hums into his coffee—his second of the evening. “Not necessarily. Jody said the shifter usually comes in shortly after closing.”

“Oh, good. So I won’t have to finish reading MumfordSux20’s fucking novel.” Dean drops his phone onto the seat and rubs at his eyes, mutters, “I dunno why I keep doing this.”

Cas taps his fingers against his coffee cup. “Maybe you’re looking for something specific.” 

“Yeah, an orgasm,” Dean says. 

Cas rolls his eyes. “I meant something more like… a connection. Emotional intimacy.” 

“You don’t use hook-up apps to find emotional intimacy, Cas. You use them to get laid.”

“Which you don’t seem to be having much luck with,” Cas says.

Dean sighs and drops his hands. Cas watches him, slumped in his seat with his leg bent against the dash, bare knee poking out of the hole in his jeans and hands wrapped around his cup. He looks tired and cranky and human. It’s a good look on him.

Dean clears his throat.

“So,” he says. “You think if I slept with someone I have a—uh. ‘Connection’ with, that it would be better?”

The faint glow of the moon seeping in through the windows makes Cas’s scruff look like a dark shadow on his chin. 

“I think it would be, yeah,” he says.

Dean swallows, feels his pulse start to beat a little faster because Cas keeps watching him like he’s waiting for something, and whatever it is makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

He looks down at his hands. “Cas, listen—”

The seat squeaks when Cas bolts upright. “Dean.”

Dean looks up and Cas points. Across the street, Jennifer Marshall emerges from the alley, dressed in a large black coat and carrying an empty duffle bag. Glancing around, she quickly punches a code into the security panel and slips into the building.

///

Jody worries her bottom lip as they watch Sam and Cas take the shifter’s statement through a two-way mirror back at the station.

There’s a cut on her cheek from where she stumbled and landed in a rack of cutesy one-pieces, and Dean’s boots smell like a dirty back alley, but otherwise they got out of the hunt unscathed. 

“What do you do in a situation like this?” Jody asks. 

Dean drinks from his mug of coffee and shrugs, ignores his phone buzzing in his pocket. In a lapse of better judgement, running on adrenaline and relief from a successful hunt, he had messaged CheezItNipplez8 and StrayCatW47 back, which he was now regretting.

“We’ve given out some second chances,” he says. “But, y’know. It depends.”

The shifter’s much younger than they initially thought, only just out of her teens. She cried as she confessed that she had lost her job at the store, and in a fit of rage started stealing from it, both as payback and to try and keep her newborn clothed. When the cops startled her she panicked, hit them both with a fire extinguisher to knock them out. Michael woke up. Ted didn’t. 

Tonight was going to be her last haul before leaving town.

“Do you believe it was an accident?” Jody asks. 

Dean watches the shifter wipe her eyes and shake in her chair.

“She’s young. She made some pretty bad choices,” he decides. “But honestly? Yeah.”

Jody nods, satisfied. Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket again. He sighs and Jody looks at him. 

“Dating app, huh?” she asks.

“Something like that,” Dean says. “The only thing it’s done for me is make me really good at Tetris.” 

“Tetris?” Jody asks. 

Dean taps the panic button to bring up the game and shows it to her. Jody watches the red piece slide down to the bottom of the screen. 

“Huh,” she says. “Marlon—the new recruit—he has that app. He said he’s met a couple of decent guys.” 

She says it casually, like it’s no big deal, but Dean still feels his cheeks warm. He pockets his phone and doesn’t meet her eye. 

“Guess he’s got better luck than I do,” he says. “All the guys I’ve met sucked—and not in the good way.”

“Yeah, I never had much luck either,” Jody says. “A lot of guys only want one thing and they don’t really consider the person they’re getting it from.” 

Dean huffs and looks at her. “So you’re saying men are dogs?”

“They can be. But there’s some good ones out there,” Jody says, turning back to the two-way. “Unfortunately, you’re probably not gonna find them on a hook-up app that has a panic button.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I should probably pack it in, anyway. I’m past my prime.”

Jody watches Sam and Cas through the glass as they read over the shifter’s statement. After a moment, she turns back to him.

“Dean, tell me if I’m overstepping and I’ll back off,” she says. “But…maybe it’s not working for you because deep down you know it’s not what you want?”

Dean frowns at her and Jody smiles again.

“I’ve settled for less than what I wanted because I thought it was all I could get,” she says. “And kiddo, let me tell you: it’ll make your life hell. So take it from me, never settle for less than what you deserve.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I—I don’t really know what I deserve.” 

Jody reaches out to squeeze his arm just as the door creaks open and Cas slips into the room, shifter’s statement in hand. Jody lets go to take the statement from him and Dean looks away, drinks a mouthful of coffee as Cas comes to stand next to him. 

“I think she’s telling the truth,” he says. 

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah?”

Cas nods. He pulls the coffee out of Dean’s hands and takes a drink, scowls at the taste. He hands the cup back and Dean grins. 

“You do that every time,” he says. 

“Because every time I keep hoping you’ve developed better taste.”

Jody eyes them from over the statement, mouth turned up in amusement. Dean clears his throat again. Thankfully, Sam wanders in to distract everybody with the smell of raw garbage, the wet streaks on the legs of his jeans finally starting to dry. 

“I think she’s legit,” he says. “So, one-way ticket to somewhere not here?”

Jody nods. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says. “Let’s go find the nearest bar and get shitfaced to celebrate.”

“No can do, kiddo. Some of us still gotta work in the morning,” Jody says.

“Yeah, falling into a dumpster’s enough excitement for me, I think. I’m gonna shower in bleach and go to bed,” Sam says. He shakes Cas’s shoulder affectionately and says, “Spill some for me, though, huh?”

viii

After the dumpster fiasco, the smell of stale beer, old sweat, and sawdust is a welcome change. There’s a baseball game playing on the television over the bar and the radio cranks country out of a few dying overhead speakers, and Dean tries to distract himself from the salt all over Cas’s fingers as he works his way through a bag of pretzels.

Miles Nolan, thirty-nine, is a video editor with blond hair and tattoos up his arms, and he wants to know if Dean’s cool with being filmed while they fuck. 

Troy Martin is a self-proclaimed “toppy twink”, who tells Dean he loves making “big alpha-men” beg for his giant—okay, those measurements are definitely not—oh, nope, they are. Okay. 

And Greg Craig is—yeah, that’s his real name, and Dean’s not even bothering. 

He tosses his phone onto the bar in frustration and grabs his beer. Cas dusts his hands off on his jeans, looks at him.

“You don’t have to keep me company, Dean,” he says. “You can go if you want, I understand.”

Dean huffs into his bottle. “At this rate I’m better off grabbing a cucumber from Whole Foods and shoving it up my ass when we get back to the motel.”

Cas opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

Dean sighs. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“Frustrated.” Cas nods. “I know.” 

“Well, yeah. But I mean—talking about my shitty sex life with you is still pretty awkward,” Dean says. “And—and personal. Or inappropriate, or whatever. So, y’know. Sorry.”

“I like it when you share things with me,” Cas says, easy. “Even if they’re awkward or personal. Besides, I thought that was what friends are for.”

Dean huffs and thumbs the label on his beer bottle. Cas watches him.

“Dean, you know I’m here for you,” he says. “For anything.” 

Dean looks at him, and the realization of what Cas is saying hits him square in the chest, so heavy it knocks the wind out of him. He tries to swallow it down.

“There’s some things I can’t ask you for, Cas,” he says.

“Why not?” Cas asks. He trails his fingers absentmindedly over the neck of his beer bottle and Dean aches. “I’m offering.”

“What, to give me a quick pity-fuck?” 

It comes out before he can stop it, all in a rush and with an angry bite to it. Cas’s face falls, and Dean wants to gut himself, wants to shove his words back into his mouth and choke on them. 

Quietly, Cas says, “Dean, I wouldn’t offer to sleep with you if I didn’t already want to.”

Dean pauses. Plays Cas’s words over in his head.

“Wait,” he says. “What?”

“I said I want to sleep with you,” Cas says. “I have for a long time.” 

“You—” Dean blinks. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, Dean, I’m serious. I—” Cas cuts himself off, sighs. “I can’t tell if you’re being deliberately obtuse right now.” 

Dean stares at him. Cas’s mouth thins, a little annoyed, and Dean laughs when it hits him. 

This whole time—when he’s stumbled back after a shitty lay and Cas stared at the marks on his neck like he could do one better, and the tight edge to his voice when he told Dean he deserved better, like it was personal, or the whole ‘connection’ thing—Christ, he’s been an idiot.

Cas gives him a sour look. “I don’t understand what’s funny.”

“Me,” Dean says. “I’m an idiot.” 

Cas huffs. “And what finally brought you to that—” 

Dean kisses him. 

It’s quick, and he misses his mark a little, but he tastes the beer on Cas’s lips, the salt. Feels the scratch of scruff against his own. When he pulls back, Cas looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“So,” Dean says. “You wanna get outta here?”

///

Cas—Castiel to most others, though Dean hasn’t called him that in a long time—is somewhere between old and really-fucking-old, hates getting up early, drinks way too much coffee, and has one hell of a rebellious streak. He’s the best friend Dean’s ever had, and definitely wasn’t lying about the prostate thing.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Dean pants.

Cas hums and mouths at his throat as he rocks into him, keeps an easy, unhurried pace that gets Dean’s insides burning. The headboard taps lightly against the wall, and Dean reaches up, uses it as leverage to meet Cas’s thrusts and drive him deeper, lets out a thin whine when pleasure hums through him. 

Cas grinds into that spot again and Dean’s hips stutter.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas.”

“Does that feel good?” Cas asks, quiet. It’s not dirty talk, it’s a genuine question, but Dean’s flushed and panting and shaking apart under him, so it might as well be.

“Yeah,” he says. He smiles, nudges Cas’s chin. “You?”

Cas makes a soft, desperate noise, his rhythm faltering as he gets closer to the edge. Dean lets go of the headboard to wrap his arms around Cas’s back and kisses him, holds him as the hot, tight coil inside him finally snaps. 

He comes with a breathless moan, feeling dizzy, rides gently against Cas’s stomach as Cas drives in and in and in. Cas tenses, a whimper breaking out of his throat, and finally falls apart. He pumps his hips until they’re both wrung out, until it’s almost too much, then collapses onto Dean’s chest.

“Jesus,” Dean says as he tries to catch his breath. “Holy shit, Cas.”

“Mm,” Cas agrees, content as he trails lazy kisses down Dean’s neck. 

They soak up the afterglow, Dean running his fingers through Cas’s hair, matted with sweat and messy in the back. He feels warm to his core, full-up and sated, exhausted with relief. 

When he touches Cas’s cheek, Cas lifts his head to look at him. 

“Hey,” Dean says. He brushes his thumb over Cas’s bottom lip, heart fluttering when Cas presses a kiss to it. Voice quiet, Dean asks, “You wanna do this again sometime?” 

Cas smiles. “I’d really like that.”

Dean breaks into a grin and Cas leans down to kiss him.

epilogue

He’s playing Tetris—a real version of it, because he’s addicted now, apparently—when his phone vibrates and Rowena’s name pops up on the screen.

Dean swipes to answer and places the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Rowena says. “It turns out that you were cursed after all.” 

Dean’s insides freeze. “What?”

“Aye, one of your… playmates,” she says. “Does the name Tony Riveira ring a bell?” 

Dean wracks his brain—after the fourth or fifth shitty hook-up, they all started blending together. Finally, he remembers: Tony was decent-looking, but definitely a newer cowpoke at the rodeo. Dean actually got off that time, but on his list of Best Orgasms Ever, it was pretty close to the bottom. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says. 

Rowena makes a surprised noise. “Well, it was him.” 

“The hell did he curse me for?”

“Well, it turns out he didn’t quite appreciate you telling him—oh, what was it—‘What are you digging for? It’s not in fucking Narnia, dipshit’.” she says. “But not to worry, dear. I took care of it.”

“Okay, ominous,” Dean says. “How?”

“Would you believe I just asked him to remove it?”

“No.”

Rowena stays silent for a moment. She sighs.

“Fine,” she says. “I pretended I was your scorned lover, got on his good side, and then when he trusted me I put him to sleep with a wee sleeping draft, stole his book of spells, then reversed it myself.”

“Right,” Dean says. “So, if I was cursed, then all those men—” 

“Oh, no, they were terrible. The curse just put you in their path instead of some potentially more satisfying options,” Rowena says. “Of course, you could’ve been having great sex this whole time if you’d just gotten your head out of your arse.” 

Dean huffs. He looks at Cas sitting across from him, bored as he flips through one of the massive textbooks Sam put in front of him for research. Cas glances up and smiles at him. Dean smiles back. 

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Guess sex isn’t the only thing guys suck at.” 

“Your mouth to God’s ears, darling,” Rowena says. “Your mouth to God’s ears.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **general warnings** : explicit dean/others, explicit sexual content, awkward/embarrassing sexual scenarios, and section 6 (vi) has a brief description of attempted non-consensual unprotected sex that turns violent (not dean/cas). 
> 
> thank you so much to [sara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures) for listening to me whine/worry about this fic, for word warring, and for excellent betaing skills. all remaining mistakes/weirdness are my own. 
> 
> i’m also [on tumblr](http://beenghosting.tumblr.com), if that’s your jam.


End file.
